How the State of Origin Rugby League Game Began….

Back in the early days—before TV deals, packed stadiums, and people arguing over selection panels—there were just two blokes, a bucket of paint, and far too much time on their hands.

‘Baggy’ Collins from New South Wales and ‘Chopper’ Harris from Cunnamulla in Queensland had the most peculiar job in the country: every morning, rain or shine, they’d meet at the border and repaint the line that separated their two states. Apparently, someone in government once decided that if the line ever faded, chaos would follow—people accidentally becoming Queenslanders, New South Welshmen waking up confused, that sort of thing.

So there they were, day after day, brushing a crisp white line across paddocks, rocks, and the occasional very annoyed cow.

Now Baggy was the sort of bloke who wore his blue shirt even when it didn’t match anything else. Chopper, on the other hand, wouldn’t be caught dead without something maroon. Neither of them had ever agreed on anything—tea vs coffee, footy vs… well, footy, but their footy.

One scorching afternoon, with the sun melting the paint before it hit the ground, Baggy wiped his brow and said, “You know, mate, New South Wales produces the best rugby league players in the country. Always has.”

Chopper stopped mid-brush, turned slowly, and squinted like he’d just been personally insulted by the sun.
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “Queenslanders have more heart. More grit. More… everything.”

Baggy snorted. “More excuses, maybe.”

And just like that, the painting stopped.

What followed was the kind of argument that started with opinions and quickly escalated into wild, unsupported claims.

“Your mob couldn’t tackle a hay bale!” Baggy yelled.

“At least we don’t trip over the try line!” Chopper fired back.

Soon, they were swinging paintbrushes like swords, leaving streaks of white, blue, and maroon everywhere. The border line zigzagged wildly as they stomped around it, turning a perfectly straight line into something that looked like it had been drawn by a very confused kangaroo.

Finally, Baggy puffed out his chest. “Right then. Let’s settle it properly.”

Chopper crossed his arms. “How?”

“A game. Your best players versus ours.”

Chopper’s eyes lit up. “Queenslanders only?”

“New South Wales only,” Baggy countered.

They stared at each other, both realising they’d stumbled onto something serious.

“State… of origin,” Chopper murmured, nodding slowly.

“Loser repaints the line for a month,” Baggy added.

“Deal.”

They shook hands… then immediately argued about where the halfway line should be.

Word spread faster than a bushfire in summer. By the time the first match rolled around, farmers, townsfolk, and curious cows had gathered to watch. The teams lined up—blokes who’d grown up in their states, proud, stubborn, and more than happy to settle the argument for Baggy and Chopper once and for all.

The game was brutal. Dust flew, jerseys tore, and at least one player forgot which side he was on but kept tackling anyway just to be safe.

When it was all over—no one really remembers who won, mostly because the argument about the referee’s decisions went on longer than the game itself—one thing was clear:
This wasn’t going to be a one-off.

Baggy and Chopper returned to the border the next day, exhausted and bruised… and immediately started arguing about a rematch.

The painted line, by this point, had been completely ignored. It faded, twisted, and eventually disappeared altogether.

But no one seemed to mind anymore.

Because now, instead of worrying about where the line was, everyone knew exactly where they stood.

And ever since that first dusty showdown, it’s been said that no matter how fierce the rivalry gets—no matter how many bruises, bad calls, or tall stories are exchanged—everything is eventually sorted the proper way: over a cold beer at the Hotel Cunnamulla.

There, leaning on the bar and arguing all over again (but with a grin this time), you might just find Baggy or Chopper themselves—or at least someone who swears they are—ready to shout the next round and remind everyone that, at the end of the day, it’s all just good mateship… until next kick-off.